


And You Will Be My Ain True Love

by HannahJane



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, But also the romance, Gen, M/M, Magic, Non graphic mentions of death, Past Lives, The angst... oh the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 07:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11286807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahJane/pseuds/HannahJane
Summary: And as you walk through death's dark veil,The cannon's thunder can't prevail,And those who hunt thee down will fail,And you will be my ain true love,And you will be my ain true love.





	And You Will Be My Ain True Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudCover (RainyForecast)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/gifts).



> This is a gift for my dear CloudCover. I hope it makes you happy.
> 
> See end for warnings

As a child, Geno Malkin had very specific ideas about his future, detailed in a battered composition notebook in awkward, childish handwriting. Now at the ripe old age of 30, those ideas were only faint recollections of daydreaming about a boy with vibrantly hazel eyes and a vague notion of moving to the Amazon to hunt dinosaurs.

 

“That’s bullshit, man,”

 

That was not to say that Geno didn’t still think about moving to the Amazon to hunt dinosaurs. Especially at times like the present, when he was sprawled on his bunk, tossing a pilfered whiffle ball at the ceiling as conversation flowed around him. Being put on stand-down was no one’s idea of a good time, especially not in the opinion of eight professional bad-asses sitting around on their asses because of higher-ups with road-to-hell good intentions had too many opinions about how time was spent on another continent.

 

It was a general consensus that anyone who wasn’t boots on the ground was a fucking moron.

 

“You got a better explanation, dickhead?”

 

“Yeah, fuck you; that’s my better explanation,” A quick glance confirmed that there was very little possibility of an actual scuffle breaking out and so Geno turned his attention back to the whiffle ball in his hand.

 

The Captain was a divisive topic, to say the least.

 

It wasn’t the most original moniker, but there were intellectuals and then were Marines and often ne’er the two would meet. Geno had fought in wars from Asia to South America and had yet to meet a fighting force as stubbornly rooted in tradition and stupidity as the United States Marine Corps. Even Geno’s time as a Knight of the Court hadn’t even begun to compare to the cult-like rituals of the the men that he currently served with.

 

“Maybe he’s psychic,” Flower offered up with a shrug which led to jeers from his teammates. Even Geno himself snorted under his breath. He’d known ‘oracles’ in another time, in another life among the ranks of the Spartans. Back then, oracles were virgins dragged to the front lines during times of war and force-fed horrible combinations of herbs and powders that would have sent even the most stoic person into a tailspin of delusion and hallucination.

 

The Captain, whoever he was, was persistent in his impression of omniscience though, much to Geno’s irritation. The urban legend of a CIA agent who flitted in and out of areas of conflict, providing intel that led to successful missions had been one that had been following Geno ever since the first time his boots had hit the sand.

 

“Maybe you’re a moron,” Hags muttered and got a stiff middle finger from the tall, lanky team sniper.

 

“I’m telling you, it’s him. It’s the Captain.” Flower said with too much confidence, as though he hadn’t spent the first two weeks of Al-Fawi getting lost coming back from the head and being the reason for more than one impromptu search and rescue expedition.

 

“Dude,  _ shut up! _ ” Tanger punctuated the command with a ball of crumpled notebook paper. Tanger was Flower’s battle-buddy in the field, but patience only lasted so long in the confines of a retrofitted shipping container with an A/C unit that had probably been on it’s last legs during the Reagan administration. They’d been living in each other’s back pockets for months now and nerves had started to fray.

 

“You’re telling me that you don’t wonder  _ how _ 3rd Platoon took down that arms depot last month?” Flower pushed, picking up the paper missile and hurling it back at his teammate. It missed by a mile and rolled off into a darkened corner best left to the camel spiders.

 

And in fact, no, Geno did not wonder about those kinds of things. That was above his pay grade. He went where he was told and shot who he was told to shoot and frankly drank more than he felt comfortable drinking, but at least that last part was something that he controlled.

 

“It’s called military intelligence, fucktard,” A new voice chimed in, muffled by a boonie hat pulled low over the speaker’s face, the facade of privacy in a space not built for it. Kessel reminded Geno of someone he’d known three lifetimes ago, someone who wore a fedora cocked just so and whose pistol was even faster than his mouth.

 

The existence of that memory was probably why Geno and Kessel got along so well, a not-quite-real familiarity from the filth and squalor of Hells’ Kitchen transported to the stark expanse of the deserts of Afghanistan.

 

Flower’s voice dropped into a dramatic story-telling register and Geno tuned him out, focusing on the whiffle ball -- up, down, up, down -- white plastic slapping unsatisfactorily in his palm. He wished he hadn’t lost his baseball, something with real weight that rolled off his fingers more naturally. Unfortunately that was three tours and an apartment move ago and he had no idea where between the ass-end of nowhere and Jacksonville, North Carolina the damn thing had ended up.

 

A dry cough caught his attention, directing Geno’s gaze to the man on the cot next to his. Kuni was hunched over his notebook, a much-handled picture of his little girl resting on his knee, a brand new human being with a button nose and tiny pink bows in her silky blonde hair. It wasn’t jealousy that stirred in the pit of Geno’s stomach so much as intense longing, a longing that was tempered by the knowledge that in his next life, he would remember every single detail of a family that no longer lived.

 

He had tried once: a mail-order bride delivered to the wilds of Colorado, a petite blonde woman with warm brown eyes and a vibrant laugh who had laughed every day right up until the day that Geno had abandoned her for a pair of eerily familiar hazel eyes across the smoky interior of a saloon.

 

The guilt was still as fresh as the memory.

 

“Jesus,” Hornqvist’s voice boomed, startling Geno out of his reverie. “You’re making it sound like the guy’s a vampire.” It never ceased to amaze Geno how Horny hid in plain sight, 6 foot with a Viking beard and a voice like a thunderstorm. Horny caught Geno’s gaze across the shipping container, rolled his eyes at Flower’s theatrics.

 

“Who’s a vampire?” Olli asked, fresh from the shower with a towel around his hips, dripping a trail through the dust on the floor, his feet already filthy in his flip-flops. Flower turned his sights on a new victim with an anticipatory look and Olli shook his head, recognizing the warning signs of cabin fever run amok. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

 

“The Captain isn’t a vampire,” Flower said derisively, shooting Horny a glare. Olli snorted, tossing his shower caddy onto his cot, shaking his head like a dog and spraying the occupant of the cot next to his. Tanger scowled over the top of his six-month out of date issue of Newsweek, but didn’t move to retaliate.

 

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been called a vampire before.” Sounding amused, a new voice slipped into the space between the start of another argument and the last one, stopping everyone in the container dead in their tracks.

 

Geno’s heart thumped double-time and he was almost sure it was audible in the sudden silence of their makeshift barracks. A shadow slipped away from the twilight-lit entrance, stepping forward into the pool of light from the naked overhead bulb, manifesting into an actual human being in all black, the civilian imagining of a military uniform via Hollywood.

 

It was him.

 

It had to be.

 

Those eyes could only belong to one person, a hazel brown that seemed to gleam gold when the light hit just right.

 

Geno’s memory rebuilt the new arrival before his own eyes, adding the details of their last encounter until he  _ knew _ . The other man’s hair had been lighter then and slicked back sharply from his face to expose high cheekbones and a slightly crooked jaw. His powerful body had been clad simply in a white collared shirt with black suspenders and a pair of loose black slacks.That white shirt had turned a slow ugly crimson as he had breathed his last in Geno’s arms, a limp hand lying in a pool of spilt whiskey.

 

Now, his hair was free of any kind of product, curling gently across his forehead and across his temples and his nose had a hint of a pink sunburn across the bridge. But those eyes… that was where the truth hid.

 

“Hello.” The much debated about Captain was far less intimidating than his name would imply, especially as he gave an awkward little wave at the silent men before shoving his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants. Geno nearly swallowed his tongue when the man’s gaze met his and then passed on without so much as a glimmer of recognition.

 

It would always be a blow to his heart every time that man looked at him without actually seeing him. Especially when Geno could see him so clearly, when he could see the man that he had loved through the centuries and in return, all the other man would see was a stranger, a soldier, a man designed for war.

 

“ _ You’re _ the Captain?” Now that he was an actual physical presence rather than a campfire ghost story, Flower’s voice didn’t carry the same respect that it had previously. All Geno could think was that the universe had a cruel sense of humor to bring them together here, now, in the middle of a war with Geno’s body battered and beaten from years of hard living. Then again, it wasn’t as if the cosmos had ever looked favorably upon either of them, not since they had become trapped in the vicious cycle of discovery and death.

 

“CIA?” the word surprised Geno even as he uttered it. His world had narrowed to a single point, one of mussed raven hair gleaming under a 40-watt bulb. Those hazel eyes flicked back to him, coolly assessing him with a flicker of long dark eyelashes. He had never looked at Geno like that before-- _ flirtatious glances across the Great Hall, a clumsy brush of hands as they passed in the hallway _ \--not with any kind of calculation or cunning in those warm eyes.

 

The current incarnation was different than all the rest.

 

“You’re with the Agency,” Geno didn’t phrase it as a question that time.

 

“Yes,” the Captain replied simply, clearly not in the mood to argue. The notion of a change, even one as abrupt as the current one, was thrilling. It meant possibilities and possibilities were something that Geno hadn’t thought about in a very long time. “Are you Lieutenant Malkin?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Two steps closer to his cot, the Captain extended a hand, stained with the blue ink of a hastily scrawled note. No longer did he have the flirtatious touch of a courtier or the soft skin of a writer. Now his palm was calloused and Geno could feel the bump of a scar on the inside of the other man’s wrist as they shook once, up and down.

 

“Sidney Crosby,” the Captain said and up close the sunburn pink of his nose had started to creep into his cheeks. “It’s nice to meet you, Lieutenant.” Crosby’s attention shifted to the left. “And it’s Sergeant Kessel, right?”

 

“Yessir,” Kessel had the brim of his hat propped up with one finger, his face as blank as usual. Only Geno who had done two tours with the man already, recognized the curiosity in his eyes. 

 

“Well, in case you hadn’t figured it out already, I’m the reason you were put on standby,” Pressure against Geno’s palm made him realize he was still holding Crosby’s hand and he released it quickly, pushing himself up and off his cot, crowding into the gleam of the lightbulb with Crosby. The man blinked at the sudden invasion of his personal space, but didn’t move away. Geno wanted nothing more in that moment than to sit Crosby down, learn everything there was to know while they still could.

 

Before it was too late and he was gone again.

 

Instead, Geno remembered the rules that had allowed his sanity to exist for thousands of years and pulled the role of military man tighter around him, asking, “And what can we do for you, Agent Crosby?”

 

“Well, I could use a little help,” Crosby said, reaching into one of the pockets of his cargo pants. Geno tried to ignore the warmth that teased his chest, brutally forcing it down with memories of loss and pain. A much-folded piece of paper was pressed into his hand and Geno unfolded it carefully, eyebrow arching as he recognized an aerial drone photo of an entrance to the Fawar-Al cave system, helpfully marked in red ink.

 

“Look familiar?” Crosby asked, a slight lilt to his voice like he knew something that the rest of them didn’t.

 

“Yes, sir,” Geno intoned as he handed the paper back, leaning hard on his military training to keep the yearning from his voice because in this life, they weren’t lovers, they weren’t friends, they weren’t even acquaintances. Crosby’s mouth twitched like he was thinking about smiling and his hazel eyes sparkled a little, or maybe it was just the light.

 

“Well, I’m glad it looks familiar since you and I and Sgt. Kessel are going in there to see a man about some weapons,” Crosby said with the kind of brutal cocksureness that every CIA operative seemed to have. In that moment, all Geno could think about was a smoky bar and the burn of illicit whiskey, about how familiar the gleam in those hazel eyes was, the last time the man in front of him had been that cocky.

 

“Oh, just  _ some _ weapons?” Kessel asked half-jokingly and Flower snickered. Crosby’s gaze flickered past Geno’s shoulder and the sound of Flower’s laughter died abruptly, a talent that more than one of his incarnations had had in the past.

 

“Abdul Rahman Yasin,” the name of a high ranker on the terrorist watch list prevented any further jokes from his men and Crosby’s expression morphed into one of smugness. “So yes, Sergeant Kessel, just  _ some _ weapons.” Horny whistled low from his bunk, both eyebrows rising towards his hairline.

 

“And you’re going out there with us as what? Team leader, ride-along, chaperone?” Geno asked. Memories or not, he was still a soldier with men under his command who lived or died depending on his decisions. He drew Crosby’s attention back to him, forcing the other man to look up into his face, an untrained warrior king trying to prepare his troops for battle with nothing but a whispered nickname and rumors as backup.

 

Consternation flitted across Crosby’s face at the blatant goading, and Geno wanted to smile, but didn’t. It was very clear that very few people challenged the word of the Captain.

 

“I’m going out there to gather intel, Lieutenant. Don’t worry, I promise to behave myself,” Crosby answered almost primly, irritation pursing his lips ever so slightly. It was so different from every other lifetime, from every other incarnation.

 

Hope pushed back against the memories of the dark times and the grief, bursting through to warm Geno’s chest as Crosby turned to ask Kessel a question.

 

_ This time,  _ a little voice inside him whispered.  _ This time will be different. _

 

**_oOo_ **

_ Geno loses Sidney for the first time nearly two thousand years ago during the Persian Wars when Geno is a proud warrior of Sparta, a brute of a man with thick ribbons of scars across his chest and not a drop of mercy in his blood. A virgin oracle is brought to the front lines as a public show of power and a more private show of desperation and Sidney is frightened by the world outside the protective walls of his temple. His hazel eyes peer out from the depths of one of the wagons, unsure and anxious and despite his best efforts, Geno is lost. Everything changes one night with a cautiously proffered water skin and the whisper of Sid’s name in the inky darkness of night. An illicit courtship forms there on the edge of war, Sidney’s hands hesitant on the mass of a scarring where a Persian blade carved an extra space between ribs, Geno’s hands infinitely more confident on the soft skin of his thighs. Sidney’s lips are soft under his that first time and the last time they taste like death, the sacrificial dagger buried deep in Sidney’s heart. Geno is executed not long after, accused of defiling a messenger of the gods and as the sword falls, he roars his anger and pain at the darkening sky above. _

 

_ Sidney is a senator’s son in their next meeting, a highborn first son with wealth evident in the silky fabric of his robe and the sandals upon his feet. They are still the same eyes though, hazel and fathomless and striking and when Sidney doesn’t recognize him, it is like a knife to his soul. Geno is a Centurion in this life, a leader and a warrior, more feared than respected, haunted by memories of a life since passed. It is a chance meeting between them, two people from different stations in the marketplace and he would have thought it was godly intervention if he were not so quietly skeptical of their existence at all. Sidney wears another’s wedding band then, the ring pressed into the folds of his robe to hide it as he speaks to Geno softly, strokes his bristled cheek in the privacy of a dark doorway, speaking of their future and their own wedding. Disease steals Sidney from him in this lifetime, striking his lover in the slowest and most painful of ways. Geno’s own grief destroys him not soon after, a lonely death on the battlefield surrounded by the bodies of his fellow countrymen. _

 

_ He is a Knight of the English Court, proud and defiant in his beliefs, riding forth to spread the glory of his kingdom, Sidney is the warrior prince of a far-off-land whose skin smells of sun and wind. He is a mercenary Hessian traveling alone in a New World, Sidney is a French plantation owner, both alone in this fledgling country, both taking shelter in the other’s company. He is the sun-darkened Rough Rider from the East Coast, blazing a trail across the unexplored West; Sidney is the smooth-talking gambler who seduces him up the stairs and into his room. He is the cocky gun-toting Mafiosi from Sicily infected with the can-do American spirit and Sidney is wrapped up in the grasp of a speakeasy owner, the man on the stage who tickles the ivories. He is the American soldier battling the jungles of Vietnam for honor and country and Sidney is the eagle-eyed photog who captures the gruesomeness of war and Geno’s heart.  _

 

And now they were Evgeni Malkin and Sidney Crosby, strangers in a strange land, joined again in conflict. Across the supply tent, Sid looked almost delicate under the bulk of full field gear, a sleek black helmet crowning his dark hair. He was chatting quietly with the tall blonde waif of a woman who had been introduced simply as Murrs -- “You don’t have the security clearance for the rest,” she’d said cheekily and winked at Olli who had blushed and dropped his canteen -- and Geno narrowed his eyes as the woman rapped her knuckles on the Kevlar and said something that made Crosby scowl only to ruin the illusion of irritation by smiling a few seconds later.

 

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Kessel murmured, already kitted out, helmet dangling from one hand as he leaned against the wall. Geno grunted as he tore his gaze away from the cozy picture that Crosby and Murrs made and turned his attention to his kit, trying to ignore the man at his side.

 

“Bullshit,” Kessel said, nudging Geno’s foot with his own. “You’re jumpier than Frogger on the freeway at rush-hour.”

 

“I’m fine,” Geno snapped and gritted his teeth at the sound of Crosby’s laughter, the sound achingly familiar. He had to be fine because he couldn’t even begin to explain what was wrong that he was going to have to lead the man he loved into harm’s way, that the sands of time had already started to slide through the hourglass.

 

That they might not have long at all now and that each second that slipped away was time he could spend with Crosby, time that he could use to fall in love all over again.

 

Crosby laughed, a sound cut short by an undignified snort and the feminine burst of laughter from Murrs made Geno’s teeth grit even harder. The familiarity between Crosby and the other woman did not help matters. Geno whipped the extra thigh holster back into the locker, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

 

The laughter stopped.

 

“Sure you’re fine,” Kessel said, placating, taking his cues from the thunderous expression that Geno was sure had settled over his face. “Why don’t you take a few minutes and then meet us out there, L-T?” without waiting for an answer, Kessel shouldered his rifle and did a sharp about face, leaving Geno staring into the locker in front of him.

 

The sound filtered out of the small shed that doubled as their informal locker room , fading as the other people in the room followed Kessel’s lead and finally Geno exhaled heavily, letting his grip on the sides of the equipment locker loosen. His head fell forward, hanging heavily as he folded hundreds of identities and pasts back inside his chest, stuffed them into the skin of the man that he was now.

 

He was Evgeni Malkin, lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps, owner of a five-year old Ford pickup parked at a friend’s house in Lejeune, unrepentant Pittsburgh Steelers fan and the son of Natalia and Oleg Malkin. He was not a Musketeer or a Knight or anyone other than the man he was right then. And Crosby was not a prince or a quick-draw artist or anyone other than the man that he was right then. Geno took a deep breath, exhaled again and straightened, scrubbing a hand across his slightly too-long hair as he turned to the gear laid out on the prep table.

 

The Captain stood in the narrow doorway of the locker room, muscular arms folded over his chest, staring at Geno over the tops of his mirrored sunglasses.

 

Evgeni Malkin didn’t react, but every person he had been before does, shouting at him with the rolling peal of a thousand voices.  _ Him, it’s him, you fool! _

 

“Is there something I can help you with, Agent Crosby?” Geno’s movement was curbed by training, practice keeping his hands from trembling as he tucked things into the pockets of his vest, an extra chem light here, a tightly-rolled package of bandages there. Crosby stared at him, head cocked to the side in curiosity before he heaved a put-upon sigh and walked over, leaning against the table beside Geno.

 

The proximity did nothing for Geno’s already frayed nerves.

 

“Is it because I’m young or CIA, Lieutenant?” Crosby asked, tilting his head so that he could make eye contact with him from under his helmet. Geno knew what the other man was asking, but feigning ignorance had worked spectacularly for him as of late, so he offered a polite smile and furrowed his eyebrows in feigned confusion and said, “Sir?”

 

“I’ve read your file, Lieutenant. Playing stupid just makes you look like a bigger jackass than you’re already being.” Delivered so matter of factly as it was, the reprimand took a moment to slip through, but when it did Geno flushed hotly, staring down at the newly repaired clip on his rifle sling.

 

“So?” Crosby asked, shifting on the balls of his feet to settle his weight more comfortably against the hard lip of the table. “Which is it? Because I’m young, because I’m CIA, or because you’re a jackass?” Geno could feel Crosby’s eyes drilling into the side of his face and wondered what he thought when he looked at Geno.

 

“I have no problems, Agent Crosby, professionally or personally.” Geno almost believed himself, proud of the steady way that he delivered the words. Crosby’s eyebrow quirk told him that he wasn’t as easily fooled. Geno glanced down and away then, noting that Crosby’s left boot was untied, the laces flopping around.

 

“Your boot’s untied,” Geno told the floor and without waiting for an answer, crouched in front of Crosby, loosening the laces enough to straighten the tongue before he began the task of retying them.

 

“I’m not a child,” Crosby snapped as Geno finished with the first boot and decided that the second looked loose as well. Still, the other man made no attempt to stop him. Geno was suddenly struck with a memory, a picnic along a river, of his own clumsy fingers on the thick ties of a pair of well-worn sandals and of shy glances framed by long, dark lashes.

 

Then Geno blinked and there was nothing before him but black boots and the ever present dust that seemed to settle over everything in Afghanistan and said, “No, sir.” He carefully tugged the leg of Crosby’s pants down over the newly tied knot and realized that the entire time that he’d been tugging on his clothing, that Crosby had pulled his helmet off, letting it dangle from one hand, a dark curl of hair falling over his forehead.

 

Geno was suddenly very aware that he was not a young innocent man anymore, not like he had been in lifetimes past, young and charming and enough of a rogue to sweep Crosby off his feet. Crosby’s hazel gaze was curious as Geno returned to his full height, towering over him again, a boy playing at being a soldier with his briefing packet lingo and unfounded confidence and next to no experience with the gun he wore at his side.

 

A thousand lifetimes overrode the better angels in his head.

 

“I won’t lose you,” Geno blurted out before his brain could catch up with his mouth. It was harsher than he intended it to be, Crosby’s eyes widening in surprise at the vehemence in his voice. It was only by the grace of god that Geno didn’t finish the sentence, “ _ I won’t lose you… again.” _

 

“I’m-” Geno stuttered to a stop, humiliation burning through him and reached for the weapon on the prep table, more than willing to tuck his tail between his legs and run. The hand that landed on his forearm stopped him dead in his tracks.

 

It was a touch that he had been dreaming of for almost 30 years. Geno couldn’t move and Crosby’s touch became a grasp, strong fingers fitting around his wrist to turn Geno back towards him. Crosby’s golden gaze-- _ peering at him from around a pillar, flirting from beneath the brim of a Stetson, staring dead and unseeing from the ground-- _ was hesitant, but as Geno watched, it became more confident and the hand that trapped his wrist released it suddenly, Crosby’s hand coming up to cup his cheek.

 

It was the touch of a lover, of someone who was well-acquainted with every aspect of another person’s body, Crosby’s thumb stroking across the paper-thin car on his cheek, holding Geno there with his eyes and his touch. There was something ancient in the other man’s gaze, Geno realized, that he could only see when they were face to face, so close that he could see the familiarity in those hazel eyes.

 

“I-” The statement of denial died on Geno’s tongue as Crosby suddenly pushed up on his toes and pressed their mouths together. The kiss crashed over Geno, chapped lips sliding against each other as Crosby’s hand slid around to the back of his neck, holding them together. Geno’s hands settled automatically on the other man’s hips, clutching him just as tightly, fisting his hand in the t-shirt that peeked out from under his flak vest.

 

It was a kiss with centuries of experience behind it, of a man who knew that Geno melted for teeth tugging at his bottom lip and that a tug at the hair on the back of his head would elicit a moan. And it was a kiss that was over far too soon.

 

Crosby tore himself away from Geno without warning, fast enough that Geno stumbled. The other man abruptly backpedaled, putting the table between the two of them as he backed towards the door of the locker room.

 

“I know,” Crosby rasped, breathing hard as if he was in pain. There was knowledge in his face, the terrible knowledge that Geno himself had lived with for lifetimes before and Geno couldn’t tear his eyes away. “I don’t want to lose you this time either,  _ meus amor _ .”

 

And with only a fraction of hesitation, Crosby turned and walked away, a streak of sunshine from the doorway gleaming in his hair.

 

The ember of hope burst into flame in Geno’s chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Non-graphic depictions of death and violence. Brief character death (but not like you'd think). Mentions of infidelity.


End file.
